In Whatever Capacity
Decepticon Message: 2/19....Posted........Author Cyclonus!........Thu Aug 18....Cyclonus Cyclonus' face appears on the screen. He does not look particularly happy. "Decepticons, In light of our recent setback upon the highway I require the following things to report to my office as soon as possible: 1)Unit Fusillade. 2)At least two individuals who are highly proficient with creating specialized explosives. I have a task for the... three of you to shore up our defenses. It will involve a considerable amount of work, and will involve extra energon rations for those who do well. Lord Cyclonus, Out." IHQ Conference Chamber Accessible only from the war room, this chamber was designed for high level meetings of Command and those they would deal with. The room is square and within the center is a large round table, with places for each member of High Command, the CO and XO of each division, and no more. Any others are relegated to standing as High Command has always come first. On the walls are banners of the Empire, each bearing the royal purple symbol of the Decepticons from nearly floor to ceiling. At the end opposite the entrance, and raised above the table to suit his station, is Galvatron's throne. The table may be round, but there is no doubt as to who has superiority within this Empire. Any visitor to Cyclonus' office would be promptly redirected by an irritable squid-like secretary towards the main Conference Chamber of the Imperial Headquarters. Those who make their way there would find it almost completely devoid of activity, with the exception of the expected royal-blue figure. Lord Cyclonus sits at the head of the table -- a small device lying upon it in front of him. A holographic projector is currently displaying a readout of the area where sensor coverage was lost at the hands of the Autobots some time before. His expression is relatively neutral, seeming to be neither foul nor accommodating. He likewise appears to be waiting for something. Staring down the wall of coalition forces circling Polyhex. Patrols. Raids. Certainly more than enough to keep the average trooper's head spinning. Some appear to have more masochistic tendencies. Setting up open access simulations of Killarn. Needing to meet with Galvatron -- again. And now, a call to meet with Cyclonus as well. All without pissing someone off. It's enough to drive a femme batty, if they weren't already there. Fusillade's been checking discreetly with a few of the IHQ guards, and after being pointed to the Chamber, surprisingly enough, by an irritable squid-like secretary. The tandem footfalls and accompanying soft clacks of pleated wingblade layers announces Fusillade's approach. Upon noting the commander, Fusillade halts at the doorway, dips her gold-toned helm in more of a bow than salute, and greets, "Good cycle, Lord Cyclonus." She does not advance until he acknowledges that it is proper to do so. For the past six cycles this room has been occupied. Not by Lord Cyclonus of course, but by another, less visible tenant. Hidden within one of the main computer's access ports, Shrike has been dormant since last meeting with Fusillade about her plan involving the Killarn Metalworks. His cassette mode affords him the unique ability to interface with the mainframe and use its raw power to augment his own processing speed, making his data correlation much easier. For the most part he ignores any noise present within the room, chalking it up to your average maintenance bot or cleaning droid. So much so in fact, that he ignores his sensory input while interfaced with the mainframe, although the greeting that Fusillade's voice emits does catch his attention: Lord Cyclonus is here? Without warning the console opens and Shrike is ejected, transforming and landing atop one of the room's many rafters. He stretches his wings and bows his head toward the Commander. Cyclonus demonstrates himself as not being one for formality today. He simply nods to Fusillade, stretching out a silver finger to point at the chair nearest to him. "Sit." He states in a level voice. His opposite hand then calls up a rotating view of that particular stretch of highway. He is about to speak and provide some explanation for this meeting when Shrike bursts unexpectedly into the room. As per usual, Lord Cyclonus does not look irritated nor happy to see the other -- instead reaching out a hand to tap the table in front of the seat he indicated for Fusillade. "Unit Shrike. Fortunate that you are here, for this is a mission that you may assist in as well." And then two more buttons are pressed as the projector is turned to input mode, and a small datapad is somewhat rudely tossed across the table to land squarely in front of seat in question. "You will provide me with your Maximum takeoff weight, and the dimensions of your weapon cylinders, Fusillade. There will be no padding either. I wish to know to the nearest half pound. I care nothing for what maneuverability or fuel efficiency is sacrificed." An easy saunter carries Fusillade to the seat, where she drapes herself, cupping hands atop the handrests. She's quite readily accepted that she is not being disciplined, and that Command has indeed taken an interest in her potential -- and dangerous as it is for her well being, some part of her psyche savors the attention. One look is spared upwards to the tape, and perhaps a thin smile as well. Fusillade then begins to pull out her own data padd, and is midway through snapping open the holofoil between the hand grips when Cyclonus delivers his edict. The femme gives the abused common use padd a rather baleful glare briefly, before primly setting down her own bronze-finished padd. "Most certainly. The three bays my alt mode is equipped with can be fitted with three different kinds of rotary launchers, a non-precision munitions carriage, and a fuel tank option." She opts to begin manually entering the data, perhaps taking some pleasure in the physicality of the motion of black talontips upon the keys. "Maximum take off weight? Well, that's..." She furrows her brow, and considers. "If the bays are reinforced and some of my range reduced... the equivalent of nearly half a million Terran pounds. 477,000, to be exact," she finishes. Fingers continue to fly, as she enters in very very technical aspects, such as all the permutations of munitions capacity for each single warhead available in the Decepticon Empire, based on weight and size. Shrike remains in the rafters for now, he dislikes sitting on tables or chairs for that matter. He can see everything from this position. He interjects his own answer to the offered question. He is after all a mobile information archive. "Maximum takeoff weight: 477,000 standard pounds which equates to a maximum payload of 287,000 pounds. Maneuverability will not be influenced by full load given that all materials will be stored in the 3 standard compartments of the craft." He pauses. "Of our current personnel roster only Octane and Astrotrain can provide more cargo room. Both can accommodate a 20 percent increase to maximum takeoff weight at the cost of a larger radar signature and thus, a 65 percent increase in the chance they would be detected." Cyclonus listens to both Fusillade and Shrike, his left hand tapping out a short rhythm on the smooth surface of the tabletop as he does so. Letting both speak he seems to weigh the varying kinds of data before he continues thoughtfully to speak. "If your range was reduced farther, and you were fitted with external pods beneath your wings?" He makes a simple inquiry to Fusillade -- although he's looking at Shrike as he says this, seeming to half expect the smaller tape to answer this question instead. "I understand that it would limit you to subsonic speeds. Further, laden to the absolute physical maximum what do you believe that you can get off the ground -- creaking, groaning ands training if necessary at? Any structural integrity or engine damage would naturally be repaired after the mission was completed." And oddly enough he still hasn't actually come straight out and said what the intended mission is. "Astrotrain and Octane are not options for this particular mission. As it stands, Unit Fusillade is the only individual whom I believe can carry out my intentions." Shrike does indeed answer. "B1-B Lancers are not designed to carry external pods beneath their wingspan. Even utilizing our own materials for the construction of Fusillade, aerodynamics remain the same. Adding pods beneath the wings would likely result in a catastrophic crash. Shoring up the internal skeleton of the craft's wings would not be sufficient in this case. Even given Cybertron's thinner atmosphere and significantly lower drag co-efficient, the wings simply cannot support additional weight." A faint expression of horror crosses Fusillade's face as Cyclonus mentions her beloved wings. "A slight correction, Lord. There is the possibility of adding up to six external hardpoints on the main fuselage frame. The wings themselves, given their variable geometry, would not be able to support it, as Shrike has already stated." She pauses for a moment to square her shoulders and lean back in her seat, pursing hematite lips faintly. "It would provide an additional 59,000 pounds of ordinance. But the Autobots are not stupid, my liege. They have become increasingly focused and aggressive toward me when I am on raids or respond to attacks. I suppose I should consider it flattering, but consider this as well: perhaps I should engage in a few feints, serve as a distraction a few times while other units achieve their objectives. Then when it comes time for us to implement the..." What WAS he proposing? "Idea you are working on, they will be less likely to outdo themselves attempting to shoot me down." Cyclonus nods first at Shrike, the rhythm of his tapping at the desk increasing somewhat. "You will not be attacking the Autobots directly." He states, simply to Fusillade. "Very well. You will see someone immediately to be fitted with the under-fuselage pods. With all due haste you may have them removed within a couple of days. You may of course attend your meeting with Galvatron first." At this point he leans back into his chair; crossing his arms over his chest. "As the Autobots have made our sensor coverage useless, we shall make the highway useless to them. Unit Fusillade, you will be fitted with customized ordnance cylinders for your internal bays. A special computerized deployment plan will enable you to carry six thousand, nine hundred and twenty fifty-pound camouflaged anti-vehicle mines and deploy them properly over several sections of highway, effectively removing the Autobot's ability to make use of it. It is my intention to do this in a single flight -- which is why I am concerned over how much ordnance you may carry. After all, by your own admission it would be foolhardy for you to linger about in the air for longer than necessary. Unit Shrike. I wish for you, when the time comes to accompany her as a spotter to be certain that the deployment is going as planned. If necessary, you will provide a distraction to any Autobot air forces." Shrike would raise an optic ridge if he were capable. "I am forbidden by Lord Galvatron to engage Autobot forces in combat unless he or another member of High Command is present." Which is fairly common knowledge. "My knowledge cannot be risked without close supervision from someone capable of retrieving or destroying me in a single blast, lest the Autobots capture me and recover what I have stored within my databanks." A million rebuttals leap to Fusillade's tongue, even as she moves one hand under the edge of the table, fingertalons biting into the metal. Rank doubles both honors and horrors, was that how the saying went? A lop-sided, shocked smile for propriety's sake begins to spread across Fusillade's features, the jagged profile of her fangs showing. It would take naught the breath of a gnat's wing for a sarcastic career and life ending 'Yeah, UH HUH' to tumble forth. At the last second, Fusillade saves her skidplate, explaining away the glazed sheen of her already bright citrine optics as saying, "It's an impressive notion. I was going to cut off the rear escape of the Autobots when they were assaulting the outpost, which Arachnae took over. The roads are their lifeblood -- it is time to apply a tourniquet. Or just blow the limb off in this case," she simpers, finally warming up to the challenge. Was challenge quite the right word at the moment? SUICIDE seemed like a good synonym too, the more cautious and sensible side of her processor clamored. "I would like to politely and respectfully request two items if this is to proceed, my Lord. A simultaneous, diversionary attack by some of our Seekers, or even one of the gestalts, elsewhere. And several escort units. Catechism has performed wonderfully since her transfer to Beta Wing, but even she cannot stop five simultaneous blasts coming in from different trajectories." Cyclonus waves his hand at Shrike in a somewhat dismissive manner, not seeming truly bothered. "Very well. However, you may still make yourself useful in assisting to calculate the optimal mine deployment pattern. That said, I am pleased that you see the wisdom of my intentions. However, as to your requests -- we will simply need to see what is available. Naturally, you may assume that I will be coming along. Certainly, that is a replacement for at least three lesser escorts. What resources are available tonight, we will use." There is a pause before he adds.. "Are there other concerns?" A moment passes as Fusillade absently considers, "It would be pleasant to have a fast craft my size to fly with." Raising a hand apologetically, she amends, "It's just that command has been so embroiled with the intricacies of their own plots, or can't even be frakked to respond as of late. I haven't really put much thought into thinking ahead, given my current rank and role. It's been mostly a response to the needs at hand. Only that which must be done. It seems that which must be done is beginning to take on a much greater meaning. One which I do hope can be met with the greatest success and efficiency possible." A hard glint flashes across her chiseled features, as she stiffens in her seat. "Actually, one last request. I will follow on this current assignment with due haste, but I do expect significant airframe stress in addition to any damages incurred by any Autobot patrols. These will need to be repaired post haste should they occur, I MUST be present on site at Killarn, as Catechism will be running interference to any secondary Autobot reinforcements to the attack site." That servo-straining grip on the table's beveled underside continues. Bonecrusher arrives from the IHQ War Room to the south. Cyclonus is silent for a moment as he formulates words; impaling the bomber-femme with his crimson gaze in the meantime. "Activity, post Killarn is going to be far more difficult than you realize, Fusillade -- providing you are not destroyed during that assault. With the destruction of the facilities there, the Autobots will be backed into a corner. I assume you remember the analogy of the cornered turbo-rat? Their response will be swift and vicious -- and I look forward to it immensely. The escalation of this war will lead to the finish of it -- so that we may turn our attentions elsewhere." At once, he folds his silver hands across the table; steepling his fingers. "I should not worry so much about yourself during the mining run. I will be firing on everything Autobot that moves, and it is my belief that given a choice between firing on you and engaging me with superior numbers, the latter will be much more preferable -- until you begin to actually drop the weapons at which point the pit should break loose. However, if this is done right you will be able to defend yourself only a short time later." He is sitting at the head of the conference table, with Fusillade in the chair nearest to him. Cyclonus adds, quietly. "Furthermore, you will have the highest repair priority in the Empire. Does that suit you?" A moment passes as Fusillade absently considers, "It would be pleasant to have a fast craft my size to fly with." Raising a hand apologetically, she amends, "It's just that command has been so embroiled with the intricacies of their own plots, or can't even be frakked to respond as of late. I haven't really put much thought into thinking ahead, given my current rank and role. It's been mostly a response to the needs at hand. Only that which must be done. It seems that which must be done is beginning to take on a much greater meaning. One which I do hope can be met with the greatest success and efficiency possible." A hard glint flashes across her chiseled features, as she stiffens in her seat. "Actually, one last request. I will follow on this current assignment with due haste, but I do expect significant airframe stress in addition to any damages incurred by any Autobot patrols. These will need to be repaired post haste should they occur, I MUST be present on site at Killarn, as Catechism will be running interference to any secondary Autobot reinforcements to the attack site." That servo-straining grip on the table's beveled underside continues. Bonecrusher enters the conference room. Even though he's had time to hose himself down after his latest work, he suddenly feels grubby and awkward amidst the unfamiliar surroundings. It is not often that he enters a room such as this - he is a worker, not a commander. The demolitionist salutes and remains standing. "Lord Cyclonus? Your secretary sent me here." He swallows a comment about said secretary's attitude. Fusillade herself is alternating between sitting back in her seat, or leaning in and listening in rapt attention to the words rolling forth from Cyclonus. It is this later posture, back turned to the door, that Bonecrusher will find her. Upon hearing the hefty footfalls, the echoes muffled by the rich, plush drapings of Imperial Purple, Fusillade spins around, and gives a short nod to the Constructicon. "Hello there," she deigns to speak out of turn to him, before turning back to address Cyclonus. "Do you really see this as the match in the tinderbox, then? Many others would be skeptical of it, and say this is but yet another cycle of give and take between our races." Almost indulgently, she rumbles out, "You and Lord Galvatron have dearly missed the chance to battle the Autobots yourselves. It will be most inspiring to see you in action again. And the proposal for prompt repairs sounds most agreeable, thank you." In the back of her mind, the pessimist insists that she's going to get assigned to that one Sweep that liked turning pain receptors UP and then using a swarm of nanites to eat away and reconfigure body parts... but she doesn't allow her imagination to linger for too long on that. The sad thing is that Fusillade is very probably right. If that particular sweep is the only one available....Regardless, that train of thought need not be finished. Before he can speak though, Bonecrusher enters and the Lord looks up to him suddenly. "I know why you are here." He states without a breath, pointing to the chair across from Fusillade. Without any further delay he slips a datapad the same position. "I require approximately seven thousand of these." They are small fifty pound mines. "Currently, we have just under six thousand five hundred in inventory at this particular base. You and yours will be required to construct another three hundred by tonight. Commandeer whatever equipment and personnel you need. Speed is of the essence." Then, Cyclonus turns his face back to the bomber-femme. "I see it as the potential for it to be -- and so I will prepare for it, and I will hope for it. With all due luck, it will be that catalyst indeed." At the mention of battle, Cyclonus grunts. "It has been some time since I saw the open sky in battle. May any Autobot that stands in my way make peace with their gods." Bonecrusher greets Fusillade with a nod and sits down in the chair Cyclonus indicated. He reaches for the data pad and studies it intently. "By tonight?" The Constructicon's face contorts into a light frown. However, it's obvious that Cyclonus is serious about the whole thing and won't accept excuse, so Bonecrusher says, "You can count on me and us, sir." 'Us' being, presumably, his fellow Constructicons, and whoever he'll be able to rope into helping with the work. "Anything else?" Extending hands palm-up in a shrug, Fusillade finally surrenders that death grip upon the table's edge. "Far be it from me to hinder such a glorious outcome. I shall aid." Cyclonus's unshakable demeanor helps smooth Fusillade's ruffled feathers. The dark grey and white femme inclines her head, and states, "I do not have anything further to add, and will make myself available in one of the shuttle loading bays to have my alt mode's bays fitted with proper dispensers." An apologetic look is sent to Bonecrusher, as she belatedly wonders if he and the Constructicons had any plans for the evening, other than the standing orders for the Polyhex fortifications... Cyclonus taps upon the table once again with his left hand. "Very well. Fusillade will likewise furnish you for the specifications to craft the rotary dispensers that I have included the base design for in that datapadd as well." And then he rises smoothly to his feet. "Further, Bonecrusher, I will require some further aid from you tonight -- a portion of the distraction. Providing of course that you can make it." At this point he gestures to both with each hand. "If there is nothing else, get out of my sight -- and do not disappoint me." An involuntary chuff of indignation escapes Fusillade as Cyclonus tells them to buzz off. Thankfully, no words escape. "Very well. I'm off to medical now, then." She stands as well, and with a flourish of wingblades flaring at her hips, she turns on her heel to stalk off. -- End --